The Grand Kremlin Palace, Moscow, Russia – May 16, 2004.
The golden light of the chandeliers, reflecting from every polished marble surface, bathed the Grand Kremlin Palace in a warm, almost ethereal glow. The St. George Hall, the most revered space within the Kremlin, was alive with the buzz of hushed conversations, rustling uniforms, and an undercurrent of anticipation. This was no ordinary ceremony. The very soul of Russia seemed to vibrate with the weight of this event. For six long months, the Chitauri invasion had ravaged the Earth, claiming lives and laying waste to vast swathes of cities and countryside. But here, in the heart of Moscow, Russia stood unyielding, its people defiant under the shield of Carlo Strange's genius.
The hall could comfortably accommodate over 2,000 people, yet the guest list had been meticulously curated. Military leaders with rows of medals shimmering on their chests stood shoulder to shoulder with scientists, engineers, and politicians. The air was heavy with the scent of freshly polished leather boots and starched ceremonial attire. Outside, Moscow was unusually quiet; the streets were locked down as the ceremony was broadcast live to over 225 million Russians and simulcast across the world.
At the far end of the hall, beneath a towering portrait of Peter the Great, stood President Vladimir Putin, his expression a mask of controlled gravitas. Beside him was Carlo Strange, the man of the hour, his commanding presence unmistakable despite his modest demeanor. Strange's face bore the weariness of a man who had faced the unimaginable, yet his steel-gray eyes held firm—a reflection of the unbreakable resolve that had come to define him.
Putin stepped forward, his polished black shoes echoing across the marble floor. As the room fell into a reverent silence, his voice, clear and measured, rang out in Russian, carrying the weight of a nation's gratitude.
"Сегодня мы собрались здесь, чтобы выразить нашу глубочайшую благодарность человеку, который стал символом надежды для нашего народа и для всего мира."
("Today we gather here to express our deepest gratitude to a man who has become a symbol of hope for our people and for the entire world.")
His words carried through the grand hall, reverberating with a gravitas that brought a swell of pride to every Russian heart.
"Когда Читаури обрушили хаос на нашу планету, Россия столкнулась с величайшей угрозой в своей истории. Но благодаря гению и мужеству этого человека мы не только выжили, но и защищали нашу родину."
("When the Chitauri unleashed chaos upon our planet, Russia faced the greatest threat in its history. But thanks to the genius and courage of this man, we not only survived but protected our motherland.")
Putin turned to Carlo Strange, his piercing gaze softening for the first time that evening. Switching to more causal way of speaking for the benefit of the international audience, he continued, «Доктор Стрэндж, созданный вами силовой щит покрыл более 5,354.23 километра российской территории, охватывая более 1400 городов и поселков. За шесть месяцев он выдержал 98 312 атак Читаури, спасая 12,8 миллиона жизней напрямую и бесчисленное количество других косвенно. Нельзя преувеличить, сказав, что ваши достижения изменили ход человеческой истории.»
("Dr. Strange, the force field you designed has shielded over 5,354.23 kilometers of Russian territory, encompassing more than 1,400 cities and towns. In six months, it has withstood 98,312 Chitauri assaults, saving 12.8 million lives directly and countless others indirectly. It is no exaggeration to say that your contributions have changed the course of human history.")
The applause that erupted was deafening. Even the typically stoic Russian generals clapped with fervor.
Carlo Strange Responds
Carlo, dressed in a tailored dark navy suit with a crimson tie, stepped forward as Putin pinned the Hero of the Russian Federation medal onto his chest. The gold star gleamed brightly against the fabric of his jacket, a symbol of his newfound place in Russian history.
"Спасибо, Президент Путин," Carlo began in accented but deliberate Russian, the crowd murmuring approval at his effort.
("Thank you, President Putin.")
His voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of someone who had been tempered by unimaginable pressures.
"Эта медаль, это признание — не только мое. Оно принадлежит моей команде, которая работала неустанно день и ночь, и моей дочери Карле, чья стойкость и дух вдохновляли меня на каждом шагу. Для меня большая честь служить России — стране, которая показала миру, что такое настоящая единство и сила."
("This medal, this recognition, is not mine alone. It belongs to my team, who worked tirelessly day and night, and to my daughter, Carla, whose resilience and spirit have inspired me every step of the way. I am honored to serve Russia, a nation that has shown the world what unity and strength truly mean.")
The room erupted into another wave of applause, louder this time, as Putin shook Carlo's hand firmly. "История запомнит вас," Putin said with quiet conviction.
("History will remember you.")
Scene Shift: Ramsey's Texas Estate, May 16, 2004
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Douglas Ramsey sat alone in the quiet of his sprawling Texas estate. The room was dimly lit, with only the faint glow of the television illuminating his sharp, angular features. The walls of the study were lined with bookshelves, their shelves groaning under the weight of volumes on history, philosophy, and military strategy. Ramsey's pale gray-blue eyes, clouded with asteroid hyalosis, glimmered faintly as they locked onto the screen before him.
The TV was tuned to RuTube, Russia's most popular video platform. Ramsey wasn't just watching the Kremlin ceremony—he was watching it through the lens of his favorite RuTuber, the irreverent and bombastic commentator known as Egg.
Egg, seated in his chaotic home studio with a Soviet flag hanging crookedly behind him, gestured wildly at the screen showing Carlo Strange. "Вы видите это, товарищи? Этот человек - американец! И он защищает нашу Родину лучше, чем кто-либо из нас!"
("Do you see this, comrades? This man is an American! And he's defending our Motherland better than any of us!")
Ramsey chuckled softly, swirling his glass of whiskey. Egg's energy never failed to amuse him, though he suspected the man's fiery rhetoric was more calculated than spontaneous.
Позвольте мне предоставить вам цифры, товарищи», продолжил Эгг, вытаскивая мятый лист бумаги. «Этот силовой щит отклонил более 98 000 выстрелов Читаури! Он покрывает 99,6% населения России! А тем временем в Америке? Читаури, вероятно, строят кондоминиумы в Манхэттене прямо сейчас!
("Let me give you the numbers, comrades," Egg continued, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. "This force field has deflected over 98,000 Chitauri blasts! It covers 99.6% of Russia's population! Meanwhile, in America? The Chitauri are probably building condos in Manhattan right now!")
«И всё это он сделал за шесть месяцев! Шесть месяцев! А тем временем в Америке, что мы видим? Читаури устраивают вечеринку на Таймс-сквер, вероятно, пьют Кока-Колу и едят чизбургеры!» Чат на стриме Эгга заполнился смайликами с смехом и комментариями, большинство из которых были на русском. Несколько английских комментариев выделялись: «Карло Стрэндж на пост президента!» и «Америке должно быть стыдно!»
("And the man did all this in six months! Six months! Meanwhile, in America, what do we see? The Chitauri partying in Times Square, probably drinking Coca-Cola and eating cheeseburgers!" The chat window on Egg's stream lit up with laughing emojis and comments, most of them in Russian. A few English comments stood out: "Carlo Strange for President!" and "America should be ashamed!")
The chat on the RuTube stream exploded with comments. "Карло - герой!" ("Carlo is a hero!") and "США в полной беспомощности!" ("The USA is utterly helpless!") flooded the screen.
Ramsey leaned back, his expression unreadable. He had known Carlo Strange once, long before the man became the savior of Russia. Back then, Carlo's daughter, Carla, had been among the few who had seen Ramsey leave Russia. He could still recall her tear-streaked face as he boarded the train, his military school uniform crisp and spotless. He had left Russia a week before his sixteenth birthday, carrying with him dreams of a different future—and leaving behind a complicated past.
As the ceremony continued, Ramsey's mind wandered. What drove Carlo Strange? The man was undeniably brilliant, but brilliance often came with its own agendas. Ramsey's lips curled into a faint smirk as he raised his glass. "History always remembers its heroes," he murmured, his voice low and measured. "But it never remembers them accurately."
The TV flickered, and Egg's voice cut through the silence once more. "Mark my words, comrades. Carlo Strange is not just a hero. He is the beginning of something much, much larger."
Ramsey drained the last of his whiskey, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "You're right about that, Egg," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the screen. "But what exactly is he beginning?"
The house was massive, sprawled across acres of prime Texas land, its modern design clashing with the surrounding ranch-style homes. The clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, and muted tones screamed wealth, but to Douglas Ramsey, it felt more like a well-furnished prison. He was sitting alone in the living room, the silence of the early morning interrupted only by the faint hum of the central air conditioning and the rhythmic tapping of his finger against the armrest of his leather chair.
The room was immaculate—too clean, he thought. Not a speck of dust on the glass coffee table, not a misplaced cushion on the cream-colored sectional. It was as if the house itself rejected imperfection. A cold place. A hollow place.
Ramsey stared at the glass of water on the table in front of him, condensation forming small droplets that slid down the side. The water level was precise, filled to exactly two-thirds of the glass. He didn't know why he cared about things like that anymore. Maybe it was one of the last remnants of control he had over his life.
He leaned back, eyes drifting to the vaulted ceiling, then closing as memories flooded in. Ramsey wasn't sure when the line between the person he had been and the person he was now had blurred so much that he couldn't tell which parts of him were real anymore.
At sixteen, he had been hardened by a decade of military training in Russia—a program so rigorous that only 2 percent of the recruits who started made it to the end. The days had been grueling, filled with 12-hour drills, combat simulations, and endless lectures on strategy and discipline. By the time he was 14, he had already seen his share of bloodshed, leading small units in covert operations. He excelled, but at what cost?
He opened his eyes and looked at his hands. They were steady now, but how many times had they been stained with blood? How many lives had he taken? 176 confirmed kills, to be exact, though Ramsey didn't count the collateral damage, the faceless casualties swept up in the chaos of war.
Back then, he had told himself it was necessary. For the mission. For survival. For the motherland. But what was his justification now?
Ramsey stood and walked to the large window overlooking the backyard. The sprawling greenery was pristine, maintained by a small army of landscapers who showed up every Monday without fail. Somewhere in the distance, the faint outline of a worker mowing the lawn was visible, the sound swallowed by the house's soundproofing.
He thought about the women he owned. The term sounded vulgar even in his head, but that was the reality of it. They weren't just employees or partners—they were his. He had the contracts to prove it. He didn't know why he did it. Power, maybe? Control? Or was it just habit at this point?
Sometimes, in moments like these, he wondered if he deserved any of it. The house, the money, the women. His official net worth had ballooned to $20 billion, and projections showed it could hit $47 billion if the alien invasion resolved favorably. But wealth felt as empty as everything else.
Did he even feel anything anymore? Or was it all an act, a performance so convincing that even he didn't know where the real Ramsey ended and the mask began?
He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the weight of his thoughts. His mind drifted to his childhood, the time before he became… this. He had been a normal kid once, hadn't he? Running through the streets of Moscow, laughing with his friends, dreaming of a future that didn't involve war or death or dominance.
But those memories felt distant, like a dream he couldn't quite grasp. Was that boy still in there somewhere? Or had he been buried under the layers of steel and ice that Ramsey had built around himself?
He thought about his mother. She had called him the day before, her voice filled with worry.
"Stay safe, Douglas," she had said. "Please. And do not let them drag you down into their madness."
She didn't know the half of it.
The clock on the wall chimed. It was 7:00 a.m. Thorn shook his head, forcing himself to snap out of it. He didn't have time for existential crises. There was a day to get through, meetings to attend, deals to make.
He walked to the kitchen, where his staff had already prepared breakfast: a simple plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and a small cup of black coffee. He ate quickly, mechanically, the food tasteless in his mouth.
After breakfast, he changed into a crisp navy suit, adjusting the tie in the mirror until it was perfect. He slicked back his hair, straightened his posture, and set his jaw.
By the time he stepped out of the house and into the waiting black SUV, the introspective, uncertain Ramsey was gone. In his place was the man the world knew: Douglas Ramsey, billionaire, strategist, and powerbroker.
"Where to, sir?" the driver asked.
Ramsey slid into the backseat, closing the door behind him. "Downtown. We have work to do."
The car pulled out of the driveway, leaving the pristine silence of the house behind.
Houston, Texas – May 16 2004
The stench of blood, sweat, and gasoline lingered in the air like a funeral pyre. The sky over Houston was choked with thick clouds, a storm brewing in the distance, but the real storm was already here—walking the streets in black leather and blood-soaked gloves.
Douglas Ramsey, better known in certain circles as "Experimental Russian" (Экспериментальный Русский), stood beside his boy, Artyom Koschei, better known in certain circles as "The Serbian Serpent"(Сербская змея) in the remains of a gutted warehouse on the edge of the city. The alien invasion had left the underworld fractured, shifting power into the hands of those bold or stupid enough to seize it. Some gang calling themselves Los Traidores had started to fill the void, pushing their weight around like they owned the state.
That ended tonight.
The warehouse was cavernous, barely lit by flickering fluorescent lights that cast long, sharp shadows across the rusted metal walls. The floor was littered with bodies—men who had dared to resist. Ramsey cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp as gunfire, his pale gray-blue eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
Artyom wiped the blood off his knuckles with a rag, his face unreadable. He had been doing this since he was a teenager, but there was something different about tonight. There was no challenge in it. No sport. Only work.
"Чисто," Artyom muttered, nodding toward the rows of dead men.
(Clear.)
Ramsey stepped over a broken jaw, the blood pooling at his boots. He did not speak at first, simply watching. He was more than a man; he was a force. His very presence made the remaining survivors tremble.
Then, he smiled. A small, cruel thing.
"Ты когда-нибудь видел тараканов?" he asked, voice low and amused.
(Have you ever seen cockroaches?)
Artyom exhaled through his nose, stretching his fingers. He knew where this was going.
"Они не умирают," Ramsey continued, nudging one of the bodies with his foot.
(They do not die.)
One of the wounded gangsters coughed, struggling to sit up, his hands slick with his own blood. He started muttering in Spanish, a prayer, a plea—who cared? Ramsey crouched beside him, tilting his head.
"Dices que Dios te salvará, sí?" Ramsey's Spanish was perfect, unnatural in its fluency. (You say God will save you, yes?)
The man's eyes widened. "P-por favor..."(P-please...)
Ramsey reached out—too fast to see, too precise to be real. He gripped the man's jaw, fingers like iron.
"Dios no está aquí," he whispered, and then he squeezed. (God is not here.)
The skull cracked like dry wood. The man twitched once, then slumped.
Artyom did not blink. He had seen worse. He had done worse. But watching Ramsey work was something different. It was clinical. It was inevitable.
"Так что теперь?" Artyom asked, rolling his shoulders. (So, what now?)
Ramsey rose to his feet, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. "Мы идем к их боссу."
(We go to their boss.)
The problem was not these men. The problem was the real power behind them.
Los Traidores had survived the alien invasion because they had something most gangs did not—backers. Someone was supplying them with weapons, intelligence, and money. Someone had given them the nerve to think they could rise above the rest.
Thorn intended to find out who.
The Powers of the Experimental Russian
The problem with Douglas Ramsey was that he was not just a man.
He was something else. Something worse.
First. Superhuman Strength (Powerpuff Mutation) Ramsey could lift up to 100 tons effortlessly, making him stronger than any normal human and most enhanced individuals. He could punch through reinforced steel as if it were wet paper. The gangsters he hit did not just break—they ceased to exist in functional form. Organs ruptured, bones turned to dust. Second. Superhuman Speed and Reflexes (Powerpuff Mutation + Miles Morales' Agility) He moved at Mach 3 speeds in short bursts, faster than the eye could track. His reflexes were 0.0024 seconds faster than the average human reaction time. A man could fire a gun at him, and he would be behind him before the bullet left the chamber. He dodged bullets the way people dodged rain—without thinking about it. Third. Enhanced Senses and Omnilingualism (Miles Morales+ Douglas Ramsey own power) Ramsey saw everything. He could read every radio frequency, access every phone call, and detect electrical impulses from nervous systems within a 2-kilometer radius. The Los Traidores gangsters thought they were whispering. They were not. Thorn heard every word. Fourth.
Mental Nonexistence(SCP-055 Influence) Ramsey was not remembered properly. If someone saw him, they forgot the details the moment they looked away. This meant no cameras caught his face. No witness could give an accurate description. He was an urban legend in real-time.( SCP-055 has more abilities than expected but it makes such sense)
Meeting the boss
The high-rise in downtown Houston was supposed to be safe. Reinforced steel doors, armed guards, and a panic room designed to withstand ballistic missiles.
None of that mattered.
Ramesy walked through the first set of doors, leaving them twisted and mangled behind him.
The guards opened fire.
Artyom moved first. He was a shadow, a knife, a curse. He dodged left, broke a man's arm, used his own gun to put two in his gut.
Ramsey? Ramsey let the bullets hit him. They flattened against his skin and fell uselessly to the floor.
One guard tried to reload. Ramsey was on him before he blinked.
"Ты знал, что я приду."(You knew I would come.)
The man pissed himself.
The doors to the boss's office burst open as Ramsey threw the last living guard through them.
Inside, the man in charge—a fat bastard in a silk suit— scrambled backward, reaching for a pistol.
Artyom shot him in the hand.
"Ай, сука!" the boss screamed. (Ah, bitch!)
Ramsey stepped forward, eyes cold. "Ты работаешь не один."(You do not work alone.)
The man shook his head, sweating bullets.
"I-I swear—"
Ramsey grabbed his face. "Think carefully."
The man convulsed—his thoughts were not his own anymore. Ramsey was inside his mind, stripping it layer by layer, pulling out every secret, every betrayal, every name.
He knew who was funding Los Traidores.
His lips curled.
"Теперь я знаю, кого сжечь."(Now I know who to burn.)
Artyom smiled for the first time that night.
The game had just begun.
The information extracted from the gang leader's mind painted a picture that was bigger than Ramsey and Artyom had anticipated. Los Traidores was not just a group of desperate criminals trying to fill the power vacuum left by the alien invasion. They were being supplied. Financed by someone with serious influence.
And influence meant power.
Ramsey and Artyom did not intend to simply kill one gang. They intended to burn the entire foundation to ash.
The first step? Finding the supplier.
The fat bastard in the chair was bleeding out, his silk suit ruined, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had screamed when Ramsey invaded his mind, but the horror of having his thoughts ripped apart by something he could not understand had left him a broken husk.
Artyom crouched beside him, the flickering office lights casting jagged shadows over his face.
"Ты говорил, что не работаешь один." His voice was calm, almost friendly. (You said you do not work alone.)
The man was shaking, his ruined hand twitching. His mouth opened, but only a wet gurgle came out.
Ramsey had extracted the truth, but Artyom wanted the details.
"Что ж," Artyom sighed, pulling out a switchblade from his pocket. (Well,) he said in a flat, uninterested tone.
The blade flicked open with a metallic snap.
Artyom pressed the cold steel to the man's cheek, letting him feel the edge. Not cutting. Not yet.
The man's eyes rolled up in terror.
"Я не должен делать это, если ты говоришь мне все."(I do not have to do this if you tell me everything.)
The bastard babbled in Spanish, some desperate plea for mercy. Artyom ignored it.
He pressed harder. The skin dimpled.
"Имя."(Name.)
The man swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "Montoya… Raul Montoya… он главный поставщик… в Мексике…."
(Montoya… Raul Montoya… he is the main supplier… in Mexico….)
Artyom exchanged a glance with Ramsey.
Montoya.
That was a name that carried weight.
Raul Montoya was not just some cartel lieutenant—he was a power broker. A man who made fortunes by selling destruction to the highest bidder. He had profited off the chaos of the alien invasion, flooding the streets with military-grade weapons, stolen extraterrestrial tech, and super-enhancing drugs.
The cartel had never been stronger.
Ramsey cracked his knuckles.
"Значит, мы идем в Мексику."(Then we go to Mexico.)
Artyom had what he needed. That meant the fat bastard was no longer useful.
Ramsey did not hesitate.
He gripped the man's skull, fingers pressing into flesh and bone. There was no resistance.
The moment he squeezed, the entire skull collapsed inward.
Blood and brain matter splattered across the desk, the air filling with the sickening scent of copper and death.
Artyom barely reacted. He was already wiping his blade clean.
Ramsey turned to the only other survivor—the last remaining guard, still cowering in the corner, eyes wide, pulse hammering.
Ramsey could hear it. Feel it. The sheer terror radiating from the man.
The bastard was not important. He was not anyone.
But he had seen too much.
Ramsey crouched beside him.
"Ты живешь?" he asked, voice almost conversational. (Do you live?)
The man nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face.
Ramsey studied him. He was just a soldier. A man who had signed up for the wrong side.
Then again, that was not an excuse.
"Жаль."(Pity.)
Ramsey's fist blurred forward.
The impact ripped through the man's chest, sending a shockwave through the room. His ribs collapsed, his spine shattered, and his body crashed into the wall, leaving behind a smear of red and ruin.
Silence.
Ramsey exhaled, rolling his shoulders. His pale gray-blue eyes scanned the room, ensuring nothing was left behind.
"Поехали," he said. (Let's go.)
Artyom nodded, already making his way to the door.
They were done here.
Now, it was time to bring the fire to Montoya.
Mexico – Arrival in Sinaloa.
The flight was uneventful. Ramsey had arranged for private transport, something discreet but fast. They landed outside of Culiacán, the heart of cartel territory, where Montoya's operations were based.
The city was drenched in heat and tension. Even at night, the streets pulsed with life—gunmen on rooftops, armored SUVs rolling slow through intersections, street dealers moving alien-enhanced product to waiting customers.
Cartel territory.
And soon to be a war zone.
They had their target. Montoya was holed up in a heavily fortified compound.
Artyom studied the blueprints on a stolen laptop, lips pressed into a tight line.
"Они ожидают нападения?" he asked. (Are they expecting an attack?)
Ramsey leaned against the table, eyes unreadable."Они всегда ожидают."(They always expect it.)
Cartels did not survive by being sloppy. Montoya had layers of security—drones, snipers, motion detectors, and a small army.
That was irrelevant.
Because Ramsey and Artyom were not men.
They were force multipliers.
The Assault Begins
They moved just before dawn.
Cartel guards patrolled the outer perimeter, smoking, laughing, unaware that death was already inside the walls.
Artyom struck first.
He moved like a ghost.
One moment, a guard was laughing into his radio.
The next, his throat was slit open so fast, he did not even have time to scream.
Artyom let the body drop silently.
One down.
Ramsey did not bother with stealth.
He walked straight through the front gate.
The first wave of gunfire lit up the courtyard.
It did nothing.
Bullets flattened against his skin, falling uselessly to the ground.
Ramsey raised his hand.
And struck.
The force of the punch sent a shockwave through the compound, ripping through the first row of gunmen like a bomb had gone off.
Blood. Screams. Bodies breaking against concrete.
Then silence.
Artyom moved in tandem, his blade flashing, his movements too precise, too fast for the cartel soldiers to react.
One by one, they fell.
Montoya was watching from a balcony above. His face was pale, his hands shaking. He was already running, trying to escape.
Ramsey saw him.
"Глупец," Ramsey muttered, his eyes narrowing. (Fool.)
He leapt.
Fifteen meters. Straight up.
He crashed through the balcony like a missile.
Montoya screamed.
And then Ramsey landed in front of him.
The End of Montoya
Montoya scrambled backward, his pistol shaking in his hand. He fired once.
Ramsey caught the bullet between his fingers.
Montoya's mouth opened, but Ramsey did not give him time to beg.
He grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him off the ground.
His grip tightened.
Montoya's vision blurred. His feet kicked uselessly.
Ramsey leaned in, his voice low, final.
"Ты играл в плохую игру."(You played a bad game.)
He squeezed.
Snap.
Montoya went limp.
Thorn let the body drop.
Artyom walked up beside him, wiping blood off his blade.
He exhaled.
"Кто следующий?"(Who is next?)
Ramsey smiled.
"Весь мир."(The whole world.)
The night had settled heavily over the city, bringing with it a thick, oppressive humidity that clung to everything. The streets outside were restless—voices rising and falling in the distance, the occasional echo of footsteps on wet pavement, the sporadic flicker of neon lights reflecting off puddles. Somewhere in the alleyways, the sounds of movement carried an air of unease, the kind that came when power had not yet decided where it would settle.
Inside the dimly lit room, the air smelled of aged wood, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of blood that had long since dried into the floorboards. The space had once been something respectable, perhaps an office, perhaps the back room of an establishment that had seen better days. Now, it was a temporary nerve center, a place where decisions were being made before the outside world realized they had already been decided.
Douglas Ramsey sat in a worn leather chair that had seen decades of use. His posture was relaxed but deliberate, an arm draped over the side, while the fingers of his other hand played with a silver coin. The coin moved with practiced ease, flipping across his knuckles, vanishing for a split second before reappearing, spinning between his fingers in smooth, methodical motions. It was an unconscious display of control, the kind that came from years of practice—not just with the coin, but with everything he did.
Across from him, Artyom sat with his elbows on his knees, his thick fingers loosely interlocked. His build was that of a man who had spent his life doing hard things, his frame broad and heavy with a strength that had not come from leisure. He was not the kind of man who allowed himself to relax, but in Thorn's presence, he seemed more contemplative than cautious. He had known Thorn(nickname for Ramsey)for some time, had seen him in different situations, had watched him work. Yet, despite that familiarity, there were aspects of the man that remained elusive.
Artyom's sharp, cold eyes followed the movement of the coin for a moment before flicking up to Thorn's face. "You know, Thorn," he said, his Russian accent heavy but his English precise, "I have watched you deal with many types of people, but I have never seen you have any consistency in the women you choose."
Ramsey caught the coin on the back of his hand, balancing it there for a moment before letting it drop effortlessly into his palm again. He smirked slightly but did not look up. "You mistake the details for the pattern," he replied. "It is not about the women themselves. It is about the traits they possess. I do not look for consistency in appearance, nationality, or background. I look for specific qualities—loyalty, capability, a willingness to adapt."
Artyom tilted his head slightly, considering Thorn's words. "So you are saying that you do not care about the woman as an individual, only about what she can do?"
Ramsey let the coin drop onto his fingers again, flipping it between them with the same effortless control. "That would be an oversimplification. Every piece has its function, its role. Some have beauty, some have intelligence, some have raw talent. A woman who is useful in multiple ways is rare, and that is why I make decisions based on what they can offer rather than how they appear."
Artyom chuckled, shaking his head. "You talk like a man playing chess with the world. But you are always careful with your words. You make it sound like a partnership when I suspect it is something much less balanced."
Ramsey finally looked up, his pale gray-blue eyes meeting Artyom's with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. The effect was immediate—there was something in those eyes that made the room feel smaller, something that suggested an understanding so absolute that arguing against it would be a waste of time.
"You assume balance is necessary," Ramsey said, his voice calm, measured. "It is not. What matters is order. The right people in the right places. Power is most effective when it is concentrated, not distributed. Some people serve, some people command. Those who recognize this truth live long enough to benefit from it."
Artyom exhaled through his nose, acknowledging the weight of the statement without necessarily agreeing with it. He had seen enough men rise and fall to know that Thorn was not just speaking philosophy—he was stating a reality as he saw it.
"Fair enough," Artyom said, shifting slightly in his chair. "Still, you are waiting for someone important, yes? Your people are taking over this situation before some idiot tries to fill the vacuum left behind. You need locals who know the area, who can move things efficiently. It makes sense. But I hope you are not about to work with amateurs."
Ramsey flicked the coin high into the air, catching it between two fingers before rolling it back down his knuckles. "I do not work with amateurs. The woman coming here is not an amateur. She is useful, and more importantly, she is mine."
Artyom raised an eyebrow slightly but did not press the issue. He assumed Thorn meant that she worked for him, though something in the way Thorn said it felt different. Ownership was not something a man like Thorn spoke of lightly, but Artyom saw no reason to question it further.
Before either of them could say more, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the building. The door creaked open, and in stepped Rosarita "Robert" Cisneros.
She was tall for a woman, standing proudly, with an athletic build that spoke of years of conditioning. Her waist-length dark purple hair was tied into low pigtail braids, and square bangs framed her sharp, intelligent blue eyes. The contrast between her maid uniform and the way she carried herself was striking—every movement was precise, controlled, as if she was measuring every action before executing it.
The long French maid dress, the cross necklace, the white gloves—everything about her appearance seemed designed to create an image that did not quite align with the way she moved, the way her gaze swept the room, instantly assessing threats and exits. Even the large, thick glasses she wore were an affectation rather than a necessity, a layer of deception meant to make people underestimate her.
Artyom's eyes flicked to Thorn, who had stopped rolling the coin and was now simply holding it between his fingers. There was something deliberate in the way he observed her, something possessive but not overt. Artyom noted it but said nothing.
Rosarita walked in without hesitation, stopping a few feet away from Thorn and waiting. She did not need to ask why she was here—she understood her role in this moment. Thorn let the coin drop into his palm before placing it into his pocket.
"You are late," he said, though his tone carried no irritation.
Rosarita did not react to the statement. "The streets are still unstable," she replied. "People are moving pieces before they know where the board is going to settle."
Ramsey nodded slightly. "Which is exactly why we are stepping in now. You know the players better than most. You know who is useful and who is dead weight."
She inclined her head slightly. "There are a few people worth keeping. The rest will slow you down."
Artyom, who had been watching the exchange, finally spoke. "She speaks like someone who already knows what you are thinking."
Thorn allowed a small smirk. "That is what makes her useful."
Rosarita's expression did not change, but there was the faintest shift in her stance, the slightest flicker of something in her eyes that suggested acknowledgment of the statement.
Artyom exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "Fine. If she can help secure this place before some other idiot tries to, then I have no complaints. But you better make sure that whoever we work with understands one thing—my people do not tolerate disrespect. The last gang that tried thought they had backing, but they underestimated my people. I am personally offended that they thought so little of us."
Ramsey rolled the coin between his fingers again, his gaze steady. "Then let us make sure no one underestimates us again."
There was no argument. The plan was already in motion.
The deal was done. Business had been handled. The city outside was still shifting, still settling into whatever new reality Ramsey and Artyom had just decided for it. But inside, within the sphere of their own influence, the night had only just begun.
Artyom leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply as he stretched his arms out. "It has been too long since I have enjoyed a proper night out," he said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had spent far too many nights dealing with work rather than pleasure.
Ramsey, still playing with his silver coin, smirked slightly. "Then it is fortunate that we are in the right place for that."
Artyom turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as he considered Thorn. "You are not the type to waste time on casual distractions," he said. "But I am starting to think you enjoy proving points more than anything else."
Ramsey flicked the coin high into the air, catching it effortlessly before slipping it into his pocket. His pale gray-blue eyes met Artyom's with that same unreadable intensity. "Winning is a habit," he said simply.
Artyom chuckled, shaking his head. "Then let us make this interesting. A friendly competition, yes? We see who can get the most numbers tonight."
Ramsey's smirk deepened. "You think you can win that?"
Artyom spread his hands in an easy, confident gesture. "I do not think—I know. You may be good at control, at making people submit, but charming them? That is an entirely different skill."
Ramsey tapped his fingers against the table, considering the challenge. He was not the type to waste effort on pointless games, but this was not pointless. This was strategy. This was control in a different form. And, perhaps, this was a test of how different their methods truly were.
He stood, adjusting his suit jacket. "Fine," he said. "We play."
Artyom grinned. "Good. Let us see if you can keep up."
---
The club they chose was high-end but not exclusive—just selective enough to keep the atmosphere right. The music was a deep pulse in the air, something rhythmic that settled into the body and refused to let go. The lights were low, the scent of expensive perfume and alcohol mixing into something unmistakably intoxicating.
The women here were a mix—socialites, models, travelers, and locals who had money and the kind of confidence that came from knowing they were beautiful. They were not the type to be easily impressed, which was exactly why Ramsey and Artyom had chosen this place.
The rules were simple: Whoever collected the most numbers by the end of the night won. No bribes, no force, just raw presence, skill, and charm.
Artyom adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt, rolling them up slightly in that effortless, just-out-of-a-boardroom kind of way. He carried himself with the ease of a man who had seen and done it all, who could walk into any room and own it without saying a word. He was smooth, charming in a way that felt natural, like the world itself bent slightly in his favor when he smiled. His approach was old-school—intense eye contact, playful teasing, making women feel like they were the most interesting person in the world for the few minutes they had his attention.
Ramsey, on the other hand, was calculated. He played the game like a social engineer, adapting his energy to the woman in front of him. Sometimes, he was confident and direct; other times, he was distant, making them chase the conversation just enough to keep them intrigued. He understood the art of anticipation, of creating the sense that being chosen by him was not just a compliment but a rarity.
---
Artyom was the first to move. He spotted a group of three women near the bar—two brunettes and a blonde, all of them dressed in sleek cocktail dresses that accentuated their figures. They were laughing, sipping on expensive drinks, their body language open but selective.
He approached without hesitation, sliding in next to them with a relaxed, easy smile.
"Buenas noches, señoritas. ¿Cómo puede un hombre tener la suerte de estar rodeado de tanta belleza esta noche?"
(Good evening, ladies. How can a man be lucky enough to be surrounded by so much beauty tonight?)
The women turned, one of the brunettes arching an eyebrow, amused. "Esa es una línea vieja."
(That is an old line.)
Artyom placed a hand over his heart, feigning deep offense. "¿Vieja? No, no. Es un cumplido sincero. Pero si prefieres, podemos pretender que fue original."
(Old? No, no. It is a sincere compliment. But if you prefer, we can pretend it was original.)
That got a laugh. The blonde leaned in slightly, clearly intrigued. "Eres extranjero, ¿de dónde eres?"
(You are foreign, where are you from?)
"Moscú. Pero esta noche, soy de donde tú quieras."
(Moscow. But tonight, I am from wherever you want me to be.)
Smooth. The kind of line that could be cheesy if delivered wrong, but with Artyom's deep, confident voice and that slow, knowing smirk, it landed perfectly. Within minutes, he had their attention locked, the conversation flowing naturally. When he asked for their numbers, they gave them easily.
---
Ramsey, meanwhile, played it differently.
He had picked out a woman sitting alone at the edge of the VIP section—a stunning Latina with dark wavy hair and piercing green eyes, dressed in an emerald-green dress that hugged her body in all the right places. She had the air of someone who was used to being approached, but the fact that she was alone suggested she had not yet found anyone worth entertaining.
Ramsey walked up, standing just close enough to be noticed but not intrusive. When she glanced at him, he met her gaze with an unreadable expression before speaking.
*"Tienes la mirada de alguien que ya ha rechazado a demasiados hombres esta noche."*
(You have the look of someone who has already rejected too many men tonight.)
She smirked slightly. "Tal vez. ¿Eres otro de ellos?"
(Maybe. Are you another one of them?)
Ramsey tilted his head slightly. "Eso depende. Si ya decidiste que sí, entonces sí. Pero si aún no lo has decidido, entonces hay una posibilidad de que seas tú quien se acerque a mí."
(That depends. If you have already decided that I am, then yes. But if you have not decided yet, then there is a possibility that you will be the one to approach me.)
That made her pause. A challenge. A shift in dynamic.
She studied him for a moment before leaning forward slightly. "Interesante. No suenas como los demás."
(Interesting. You do not sound like the others.)
*"Porque no soy como los demás."*
(Because I am not like the others.)
The tension settled in, the kind that made the air feel heavier. When he finally asked for her number, she gave it, not because he had chased it, but because she had decided she wanted to.
---
By the end of the night, the two men regrouped at a quiet corner of the club.
Artyom leaned against the bar, smirking as he scrolled through his phone. "Seventeen."
Thorn took out his own phone, glancing at the list. "Fifteen."
Artyom let out a short laugh. "Looks like I win."
Thorn smirked slightly, flipping his coin between his fingers again. "For now."
The night was over, but the competition never really ended.
The night had not yet surrendered to dawn, and the humid Mexican air clung to every surface as if to remind its inhabitants that time was still on their side. After the bustling club had quieted down, Artyom Koschei and Thorn made their way through narrow, darkened alleyways to a secure safe house discreetly located on the outskirts of the city. The safe house was an old warehouse that had been refurbished into a temporary command center; its walls were reinforced with steel plates, and the room was lit by several low-wattage incandescent bulbs that threw long, wavering shadows across the concrete floor.
Artyom, known to many by his numerous nicknames such as the Serbian Serpent and The eclipse of eastern Europe, had not yet ceased to display the aura of lethal composure that had earned him a reputation among criminals and warriors alike. His imposing figure measured exactly 2.06 meters in height, and his sculpted physique, built over years of arduous training and unyielding discipline, weighed in at precisely 154 kilograms. Every step he took and every movement he made was imbued with the precision of a man whose every strike was measured in milliseconds. He did not waste time with self-indulgent thoughts about his inspirations; instead, he acted, he moved, and he ruled his surroundings with innate, almost animalistic efficiency.
In the center of the room, seated at a scarred wooden table surrounded by monitors displaying surveillance feeds and encrypted data streams, Thorn stood and began to speak. Thorn was a man whose talents transcended the ordinary. Not only did he exhibit the controlled strength and precision that made him a match for any adversary, but he also possessed a unique ability in languages that allowed him to shift seamlessly between tongues. This extra power made him a master of multilingual communication, which was invaluable in a land where Spanish, Russian, and English intermingled in every corner. His dark eyes glinted with the sharpness of a seasoned strategist, and his every word was measured as though weighed on scales of war.
Thorn began to outline the current situation. His voice was low and even, and he gestured toward a series of charts and digital maps projected on a wall. One graph displayed percentages, the other detailed the income streams from various illicit operations. He tapped a stylus against the screen, and precise numerical figures glowed before their eyes.
Thorn said, in a deep, resonant tone: (in Russian):
«Ребята, наша текущая ситуация с бандой Роберты такова: их влияние в нашем секторе оценивается примерно в 8.9 из 10. Они контролируют территорию с помощью жестких методов, и их возможности для оперативных действий весьма значительны.»
(Comrades, our current situation with Roberta's gang is as follows: their influence in our sector is evaluated at approximately 8.9 out of 10. They control the territory by means of ruthless methods, and their capacity for operational actions is highly significant.)
He pointed at a detailed digital map that showed key hotspots in the region. Certain areas were marked in red, representing zones of high criminal activity where kidnapping operations had already been executed in previous months. One such zone was designated with the numeral "7.3," indicating that previous kidnappings in that area had yielded an average ransom of 730,000 dollars per operation. Thorn continued:(in Russian):
«Мы можем начать немедленно. Наши данные показывают, что операция по похищению в секторе «Вега» может принести нам от 500,000 до 1,000,000 долларов за один заложника, если мы действуем быстро и безошибочно.»
(We can start immediately. Our data indicate that an operation for kidnapping in the "Vega" sector can yield between 500,000 and 1,000,000 dollars per hostage if we act quickly and flawlessly.)
Artyom, leaning casually against a steel filing cabinet near the table, listened intently. He was the embodiment of controlled ferocity, his mind ever alert for the minutiae of every operation. His eyes, as cold and calculating as the steel in his grip, narrowed ever so slightly when he heard Thorn mention the figures. Though he rarely allowed his emotions to show, the thrill of impending action stirred something deep within him.
Artyom replied in his characteristically measured tone:(in Russian):
«Я понимаю. Мы должны воспользоваться этим моментом. Мои люди готовы действовать в пределах 15 минут, если потребуется. Но помни, наркотики составляют менее 0.5 процент от нашего общего дохода, что означает, что мы не можем положиться на них как на основной источник финансирования.»
(I understand. We must take advantage of this moment. My people are ready to act within 15 minutes if necessary. But remember, drugs constitute less than 0.5 percent of our total income, which means that we cannot rely on them as a primary source of funding.)
Thorn nodded and then switched effortlessly into Spanish, demonstrating his extra multilingual power, ensuring that no detail was lost in translation among their diverse associates:
Thorn (in Spanish):
«Es cierto. La operación de secuestro es inmediata, pero el negocio de las drogas apenas representa un 0.47 por ciento de nuestros ingresos totales. Por ello, necesitaremos apoyo adicional para esa línea de negocio.»
(It is true. The kidnapping operation is immediate, but the drug business barely represents 0.47 percent of our total income. Therefore, we will need additional support for that line of business.)
Artyom crossed his arms and took a slow, deliberate breath, his mind calculating the risks and rewards with the precision of a man whose reflexes could match a bullet's speed. His tone then became even more direct as he laid out his plan:
Artyom (in Russian):
«Мы не можем позволить себе промедление. Если мы сможем провести операцию по похищению, мы получим быстрый капитал, который позволит нам укрепить наши позиции. Наши враги, хоть и малочисленны, не могут конкурировать с нашей оперативностью. Я прикажу начать подготовку немедленно. Моим людям необходимо быть в полной боевой готовности в течение 15 минут.»
*(We cannot allow ourselves any delay. If we can conduct the kidnapping operation, we will obtain quick capital that will allow us to strengthen our positions. Our enemies, although few in number, cannot compete with our operational speed. I will order the preparations to begin immediately. My people must be in full combat readiness within 15 minutes.)*
Thorn, who was known for his impeccable control over language and operations, then added a further strategic note. He continued in a seamless blend of Russian and Spanish, ensuring that every associate in the room, regardless of their background, could comprehend the gravity of the situation:
Thorn (in Russian):
«Ребята, мы должны действовать быстро и решительно. Роберт уже заручилась поддержкой нескольких влиятельных элементов, и ее банда обладает собственной дисциплиной, которая превосходит стандарт. Но помните, мы не имеем дела с обычными бандитами. Мы имеем дело с людьми, которые владеют информацией, которую невозможно забыть сразу. Наши способности многозначительны, и мы должны использовать их на полную.»
(Comrades, we must act quickly and decisively. Roberta has already secured the support of several influential elements, and her gang possesses its own discipline that exceeds the standard. But remember, we are not dealing with ordinary bandits. We are dealing with people who hold information that cannot be forgotten immediately. Our abilities are multifaceted, and we must use them to their fullest.)
He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. The room was silent except for the distant hum of machinery and the occasional rustle of paper as someone adjusted a document on a desk. Thorn's eyes glowed with a quiet intensity as he outlined the next steps:
Thorn (in Spanish):
«El plan es el siguiente. Primeramente, llevaremos a cabo la operación de secuestro en el sector «Vega». En segundo lugar, para aumentar nuestros ingresos en el comercio de drogas, necesitaremos buscar aliados que puedan aumentar nuestra cuota, porque con solo 0.47 por ciento de nuestros ingresos, no llegaremos a los objetivos establecidos.»
(The plan is as follows. Firstly, we will carry out the kidnapping operation in the "Vega" sector. Secondly, to increase our income from the drug trade, we will need to seek allies who can boost our share, because with only 0.47 percent of our income, we will not meet the established objectives.)
Artyom's mind raced through possibilities, his thoughts as swift as the lethal strikes he delivered on the field. He recalled that kidnapping operations, when executed with precision, had yielded ransoms ranging from 500,000 dollars to 1,000,000 dollars per operation. Such capital would not only reinforce their immediate financial strength but also fund future operations with a multiplicative effect.
He then continued, his voice firm and resolute:
Artyom (in Russian):
«Мы должны использовать каждую возможность. Если мы сумеем увеличить нашу долю в наркотическом бизнесе даже на 0.3 процентных пункта, это увеличит наши общие доходы на 60 процентов в этой нише. Но для этого нам нужны люди с соответствующими связями. Наши нынешние возможности ограничены, и нам потребуется внешняя помощь для масштабирования этой операции.»
(We must seize every opportunity. If we are able to increase our share in the drug business by even 0.3 percentage points, that will increase our overall income in that niche by 60 percent. But for that, we need people with the appropriate connections. Our current capabilities are limited, and we will require external assistance to scale up this operation.)
Thorn, still standing near the projection screen, nodded in agreement. He then demonstrated one of his signature abilities by quickly switching between languages, a subtle display of his extra power in multilingual communication:
Thorn (in Russian):
«Наши русскоязычные контакты в Санкт-Петербурге уже подтвердили возможность быстрого перевода средств в размере 750,000 долларов за операцию, если мы найдем нужных партнеров.»
(Our Russian-speaking contacts in Saint Petersburg have already confirmed the possibility of a rapid transfer of funds amounting to 750,000 dollars per operation if we find the necessary partners.)
He then shifted seamlessly to English, ensuring that all present understood every nuance:
Thorn (in English):
«Our allies in Eastern Europe are prepared to facilitate communications and coordinate logistics if we commit to a timeline of less than 20 minutes for initial action. This will maximize our efficiency and secure our position in the local hierarchy.»
Artyom's eyes narrowed in appreciation of the plan. Although he was never one to reveal his admiration openly, he could not help but acknowledge the brilliant synthesis of tactics that Thorn presented. In his mind, the numbers and percentages were not mere figures; they were the very essence of power and control in a world ruled by precision and timing.
Artyom (in Russian):
«Мы должны двигаться как часы. Каждая секунда важна, и каждое действие должно быть выверено до последнего миллисекунды. Если наши операции с похищениями будут успешными, это даст нам необходимое преимущество для поиска партнеров, способных увеличить наш контроль над наркотическим рынком.»
(We must move like clockwork. Every second is important, and every action must be measured down to the last millisecond. If our kidnapping operations are successful, this will give us the necessary advantage to find partners capable of increasing our control over the drug market.)
Thorn then walked over to a table cluttered with detailed dossiers, maps, and handwritten notes. He picked up a file marked with a bold red stamp that read "ОПЕРАЦИЯ «ВЕГА»" (Operation "Vega"). The file contained comprehensive details of the target area, including a breakdown of enemy positions, local traffic patterns, and precise escape routes. Thorn's fingers traced the outlines of the map with a practiced ease, as though he were rewriting the narrative of the night with every movement.
Thorn (in Russian):
«Мы начнем с захвата ключевой цели в секторе «Вега». Этот район имеет площадь ровно 2.3 квадратных километра, и наши разведданные показывают, что в нем сосредоточено не менее чем 18 вооруженных патрулей. Если мы сумеем нейтрализовать их за 5 минут, мы получим возможность захватить заложника с минимальным риском для наших людей.»
(We will begin by capturing a key target in the "Vega" sector. This area covers exactly 2.3 square kilometers, and our intelligence indicates that there are at least 18 armed patrols concentrated in it. If we can neutralize them within 5 minutes, we will have the opportunity to capture the hostage with minimal risk to our people.)
Artyom's gaze was steady and unyielding as he absorbed every detail. His mind calculated the probabilities, his thoughts racing with the precision of a master tactician. He responded in a measured tone, his voice carrying both authority and a hint of anticipation:
Artyom (in Russian):
«Я даю тебе приказ приступить немедленно. Наши люди должны быть готовы к действию через 15 минут. В то же время, я хочу, чтобы ты связался с нашими контактами в Европе и получил подтверждение готовности. Каждая единица нашего плана должна быть выверена до последней цифры.»
(I give you the order to commence immediately. Our people must be ready to act within 15 minutes. At the same time, I want you to contact our European contacts and obtain confirmation of their readiness. Every unit of our plan must be measured down to the last digit.)
Thorn nodded, acknowledging the command with the unwavering focus that had defined his career. He then switched to Spanish once more to reach another group of associates who had just arrived through a secure communication channel:
Thorn (in Spanish):
«Escuchen, nuestros contactos en Europa están listos para coordinar la logística. Necesitamos confirmar que cada transferencia se realice en menos de 20 minutos después de la operación. La eficiencia es la clave.»
(Listen, our contacts in Europe are ready to coordinate logistics. We need to confirm that each transfer is executed in less than 20 minutes after the operation. Efficiency is the key.)
In that moment, the room pulsed with the silent energy of a well-oiled machine preparing to launch an intricate series of actions. Artyom, though outwardly stoic, allowed a small nod of approval. He knew that the night was not only a test of their physical prowess but also of their ability to manipulate numbers, languages, and time itself.
As the plans were finalized, Artyom rose from his seat and walked over to a window that overlooked the sprawling city below. The city lights sparkled like scattered diamonds across a velvet canvas, and in that view, he saw the potential for both chaos and order—a balance that he intended to control with absolute certainty.
Artyom (in Russian, softly):
«Ночь принадлежит нам, и каждое наше действие будет засчитано. Мы не просто люди; мы сила, воплощенная в цифрах, дисциплине и мощи.»
(The night belongs to us, and every one of our actions will be accounted for. We are not merely men; we are a force embodied in numbers, discipline, and power.)
Thorn joined him at the window, standing side by side with a calm determination. The two men did not exchange more than a few words, for their bond was forged in shared purpose and unspoken understanding. In that silent moment, they both knew that their combined strengths—Artyom's near-mythical combat prowess and Thorn's exceptional strategic mind and multilingual abilities—would shape the night into a masterpiece of controlled chaos.
The plan was set in motion. Within 15 minutes, a team would mobilize in the "Vega" sector to execute the kidnapping operation, while Thorn would coordinate further to secure the necessary partnerships to boost their drug revenue, however slight it might be in percentage but critical in terms of strategic leverage. The calculated risk of increasing that fraction, even by a minuscule 0.3 percentage points, promised to multiply their income in that niche by nearly 60 percent. Every detail had been measured, every possibility accounted for, and every number had been double-checked.
And so, in the quiet intensity of that safe house, under the waning light of a restless night, Artyom Koschei, the Serbian Serpent, and his steadfast companion Thorn prepared to rewrite the rules of their underworld domain. Their conversation, rich with layered plans and precise figures, was a testament to their unyielding commitment to excellence, a commitment that would soon transform into action on the dark streets of Mexico.